


A Ballad of Hurt, a Sonnet of Comfort

by Shinybug



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Hair Kink, Hand Jobs, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Singing, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22425340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinybug/pseuds/Shinybug
Summary: “I do feel a bit exposed here, Geralt,” Jaskier says plaintively. “I admit this wasn’t quite where I saw the evening going. Usually when a barmaid gazes upon my treasure trove it’s under much more pleasant circumstances.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 89
Kudos: 1519





	1. First Verse

“Bring the largest jug of ale you have. And hot water, enough for the basin. Clean cloth.” Geralt passes a coin to the ruddy-faced man who is cowering just a bit outside the door to their rented room.

“ _Toss a coin to your innkeep, o’ Witcher of plenty_!”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier just grins at him, unrepentant and drunk, from his vantage point tucked up against Geralt’s side. “I don’t need any ale, thank you.”

“It’s not for you, it’s for me.”

“ _Ohhhhhh, the great White Wolf with his bite and his growl, one night with him and the ladies all howlllll_!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, long sufferingly. He slings Jaskier onto the bed and kicks the door closed in the innkeep’s face.

“Owww,” Jaskier yelps, the pain in his thigh flaring sharply and transmuting his boisterous mood into one more suited to the circumstances. “Warn a fellow, why don’t you.”

Geralt just levels him with an unimpressed look and starts unlacing Jaskier’s breeches.

“Hey now,” Jaskier says, trying to grab at Geralt’s hands and failing to get a grip. “I’m not that easy.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Geralt peels the breeches down over Jaskier’s arse and carefully slides the fabric over the four inch gash bisecting the meat of his thigh. It sticks to the bloody edges and Jaskier cringes away, hissing.

“Remind me again why I follow you around.”

“You enjoy being underfoot and testing my patience.”

“No, I remember now--because someone needs to watch your back and save your life occasionally.”

Geralt huffs through his nose. “That was one time.”

“Yes, it was this time,” Jaskier exclaims, pointing his finger in Geralt’s face, his finger swaying a bit like the entire room. “I suffer now in aid of your continued existence.”

“I should have given you a larger dose. You should be asleep by now.”

“No, no more. You finally have my trousers off, I’d like to remember the experience, thank you very much.”

Geralt’s eye roll is long and exaggerated as he gathers supplies from his satchel and lays them out on the table by the bed. There is a knock on the door and a serving girl comes in with a jug of hot water in one hand and a jug of ale in the other. She hands Geralt a stack of clean cloth and starts to back clumsily out of the room. Her eyes are glued to everything below Jaskier’s unclothed waist, until a pointed glare from Geralt sends her fleeing.

“I do feel a bit exposed here, Geralt,” Jaskier says plaintively. “I admit this wasn’t quite where I saw the evening going. Usually when a barmaid gazes upon my treasure trove it’s under much more pleasant circumstances.”

“Seriously, how are you still conscious?”

Jaskier shrugs up one shoulder. “Are you sure you gave me the right potion? This one just made my toes numb.”

“It should make your entire body numb,” Geralt says distractedly as he tucks a towel under Jaskier’s thigh and chooses a blue glass bottle from the array of supplies. He pours a small trickle over the wound without so much as a murmur of warning, and Jaskier arches half off the bed with a very sober cry.

“Quit your mewling.” Geralt lays a soothing hand on Jaskier’s doublet in opposition to his gruff words. “That’s just to numb the area, since the other one didn’t work so well.”

Jaskier’s chest heaves as he gulps in air, trying to relax. “Well it burns like fuck, so I think you may have grabbed the wrong one again.”

“It’s the right one.” Geralt grabs a tankard from the table and pours himself an ale, then drinks most of it in one go.

“You know,” Jaskier comments, trying to distract himself from the sting of his wound, “you could have saved the tankard and just drank from the jug. I certainly wouldn’t have judged you.”

Geralt eyes him. “Wouldn’t you?”

Jaskier grins and wiggles his toes. “Hmm, still can’t feel them.”

“How about your wound?”

“Come to think of it, I can’t feel it at all. I guess that was the right potion after all.”

“What a surprise,” Geralt deadpans.

“Now don’t be snarky with me, Witcher. I still think the first potion was wrong, but I forgive you. It was perfectly pleasant nevertheless.”

A muscle ticks in Geralt’s jaw, one Jaskier is very familiar with, as it is often a direct result of something he has said. He takes it almost as a matter of pride, since his greatest goal, besides creating a legacy of glorious song, is to provoke reactions out of the stoic Geralt of Rivia, good or bad.

“We should get started, Jaskier, before the feeling comes back. I can’t have you flinging yourself off the bed.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Jaskier agrees solemnly, looking at the slim bone needle in Geralt’s hand and the long thread trailing off of it.

“Do you want something to bite on?”

Jaskier’s eyebrows rise. “I thought you said I wouldn’t feel it!”

“It would be more to keep you from talking.” Geralt examines the needle carefully.

“Did you just make a joke? Because I don’t think I’ve ever heard you make a jo--holy shit that feels odd.”

Geralt hums and slips the needle through the other side of the gash, expertly stitching the edges together. “Tell me if it starts to hurt again.”

Jaskier shakes his head, trying to peer down to see what is happening. “It just feels like you’re tugging on my leg.”

“Don’t look at it.”

“Please, if blood made me squeamish I never would have begun following you around.”

There is silence for a few moments, and then Geralt asks, “Why _do_ you follow me, Jaskier?”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, swallows hard, and warbles out, “ _He’ll slay your monsters left and right, he’s always itching for a fight, he’ll kiss your babes and twirl your girls--_ ”

“Damnit Jaskier, hold still!”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, somewhat chastened.

Geralt presses a hand on Jaskier's bare hip, presumably to calm him, and Jaskier tenses up all over. Geralt meets his gaze with steady golden eyes and Jaskier promptly loses all his breath that he might otherwise have used for another ill-advised song.

“Be still.”

“Yep, still. I can be still. Next to singing, it’s my greatest skill.”

He doesn’t make a sound, but as he ducks his head to the task at hand Geralt’s shoulders start to tremble with what could possibly be laughter. Jaskier feels quite pleased with himself. He would say something about it, except that he has just promised to be still.

For a little while there is nothing but the tugging of the needle, the crackle of the fire in the hearth, and the gentle gauziness of the room wherever Jaskier looks. Which is mostly at Geralt, kneeling beside the bed and hovered over Jaskier’s bleeding thigh. It’s very much like being drunk, but without any of the unpleasant side effects, Jaskier thinks, and he only realizes that he has said this aloud when he feels Geralt’s huffed breath wash over his naked treasure trove.

Jaskier makes a strangled noise. “I can feel that.”

Geralt freezes. “The...wound?” he asks very carefully.

“Nope.”

“Okay, just try to relax, I’m almost finished.” Geralt’s voice has dropped even lower than usual.

Jaskier tries to think of absolutely anything except the slow rise of his cock just inches from Geralt of Rivia’s stoic face. He works half-heartedly on composing his latest ballad on the subject of deadly rusalkas. He considers his mental list of supplies he needs to buy next market day.

He mostly just thinks of his cock, though.

“I should probably apologize, shouldn’t I?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Geralt sounds very tense as he finishes the last stitch and then leans over to bite through the thread. His silver hair drags over Jaskier’s cock and it feels like being lashed with raw silk.

Jaskier groans loudly and in disbelief. “Geralt.”

“Hmm.” Geralt sits back and dips a cloth in the basin. He carefully washes the wound and the surrounding area of any blood, not meeting Jaskier’s eyes.

“ _Geralt_.”

Geralt smears healing ointment along the seam of flesh and wraps Jaskier’s thigh with a long strip of cloth. His hands linger briefly on Jaskier’s skin. “What.”

“You know what, don’t be a pricktease.”

Geralt’s eyes flick to his, furtive and guilty, then he busies himself with cleaning up the supplies.

“I’ll start singing again, Geralt, don’t think that I won’t,” Jaskier warns, reaching for him.

Somehow Geralt manages to look serene while quaffing the rest of his ale with Jaskier clutching his free hand like a peasant beseeching a lord.

“You can sing all you like now, I’m done stitching,” Geralt says evenly, but he hasn’t removed his hand from Jaskier’s.

“Are you really going to leave me like this?” Jaskier gestures at his impressively filled cock.

“Did you injure your hands as well?” Geralt sounds deeply affected, even if he doesn’t look like it. His voice is impossibly deep in his throat, almost like two boulders scraping together during a rockslide, and just as dangerous.

Jaskier slowly grins, feeling too fuzzy for fear. “You know, I do actually have two good hands. I think I’ll just hold onto you with this one,” he squeezes Geralt’s hand in his, “and hold onto myself with this one.”

He watches Geralt’s eyes track down to where Jaskier is taking himself in hand, and his golden eyes are nearly incendiary. Geralt sinks back down to kneel at the side of the bed, mutely settling in for the show, and Jaskier feels determined to give him one.

He strokes slowly, the way he likes it best, a meandering love song to his own cock that he’s never managed to alter for expediency’s sake even after years on the road. His hand is too dry but he doesn’t care at all, because he feels Geralt’s gaze flickering between his face and his cock, and wonders what he sees. Jaskier doesn’t let go of Geralt’s callused hand, feeling it twitch and tremble as Jaskier works himself with greater intensity.

If he were perfectly sober, Jaskier feels certain he would be too self-conscious to have initiated such a thing, however much he has dreamed of it. Still, he reminds himself, this was all Geralt’s doing, what with his stupid breathing and his stupid hair and his general state of Geralt-ness.

“A bard can only be expected to withstand so much,” he tells Geralt, a logical conclusion to the conversation in his own head.

Geralt says, “Hmm,” and it sounds like a landslide, an entire mountain crashing.

Jaskier shudders, leaning the thrust of his hips toward Geralt, just a little bit, until Geralt rests his free hand across the top of Jaskier’s spread thighs, stilling him. Jaskier arches his head back and groans.

“Jaskier, can I?”

Jaskier nods, not sure what the question is but knowing his answer would always be yes anyway. When he feels Geralt’s hot mouth close over the tip of his cock he whines and writhes, letting Geralt pull his fist away. Geralt takes him further in, his mouth a warm, slick channel that deserves a love song all its own, which Jaskier might just have to write. When he feels Geralt growl around his cock he wonders if he had been humming a tune aloud.

He gasps and pets Geralt’s bobbing head, slipping his fingers into silver strands that have just enough texture to grip pleasingly. Geralt doesn’t seem to mind it, so Jaskier holds on tighter.

“Geralt, do you feel what you’re doing to me? You’re killing me, I’m going to die, Geralt, die so happily they won’t be able to wipe the smile off my face. Your mouth is more beautiful than an Aedirnian sonnet, Geralt, and so filthy I can’t even believe you’re real. I’m going to come, Geralt, and it’s all your fault, I hope you’re pleased with yourself because I know I am.”

If asked previously, Jaskier would have said that having someone laugh around his cock would be insulting, but in truth the fact that it’s Geralt laughing makes all the difference. Jaskier feels that exquisite vibration deep in his soul, and he comes in a fiery burst of glory while Geralt pulls off to watch, still chuckling. It is such a foreign sound that Jaskier could drown in its perfect melodious pitch the same way someone would while listening to a siren’s song.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, shaking his head, his lips curved in a smile.

“Ahhh, Geralt. I fear you’ve ruined me for anyone else. And you’ve definitely ruined this doublet. Look at the state of it, absolutely covered in the evidence of my passion.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and mops up the mess with a cloth, while Jaskier gazes at him fondly.

“Let’s see about you, then,” Jaskier encourages, gesturing at Geralt’s extremely obvious erection.

“We’ll get there,” Geralt says softly, shaking his head. “You rest, first.”

“You have the stamina of a bull,” Jaskier comments on a yawn, petting Geralt’s flank. “Looks like other parts of a bull as well.”

Geralt just sighs and plucks at the laces of the doublet. “Can I help you out of this first?”

“Best do, I’m either too naked or too clothed, depending on your perspective.” He leans up to help Geralt slide the doublet and shirt off.

“Things from my perspective look just fine.” Geralt skims his hand along the length of him from neck to knees with a gentle hand.

“Will you kiss me, then? Because I feel as though we’ve done some things out of order--”

And Geralt drops his mouth onto Jaskier’s, firmly but soft as a breeze, so that Jaskier knows he means it. He pulls back with a considering hum of contentment. “Sleep now, Jaskier.”

“I might just take a moment,” Jaskier agrees, yawning again. “Oh look, perhaps that first potion was correct after all.”

Geralt’s eye roll is nearly audible.

“Where will you be?” Jaskier asks as sleep begins to pull him away.

“Right here.”

“On the floor? That sounds dreadfully uncomfortable.”

After a moment he feels Geralt settle alongside him in the narrow bed, and he wishes he were not quite so much in need of sleep. Still, it feels nice to know that Geralt will be here when he wakes up.

“Jaskier,” Geralt asks quietly, “why do you follow me?”

“Well, where else would I be?” Geralt’s chest is warm as Jaskier turns his face into it.

“Hmm,” says Geralt, and Jaskier can hear the smile.


	2. Second Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaskier blinks a few times, wondering if he’s allowed to stare yet. He goes with ‘yes’ and tilts his head to the side as he watches Geralt step into the steaming tub. Geralt is completely unselfconscious and utterly enormous. Jaskier is unsurprised and very appreciative._

“Crayfish!” Jaskier shouts, sitting up in bed. “What?”

The sound of water splashing is very disorienting, and he scans the room to find the barmaid frozen in the act of pouring water into the tub, a startled look on her face, and Geralt standing next to her wearing only his breeches and blinking slowly at him.

“Good morning?” Jaskier tries, waving sheepishly.

“Not morning, Jaskier. Still the same night.”

“Ah. Is that bath for me?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “No, it’s for me. You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

The barmaid’s face is very red indeed, and Jaskier belatedly realizes that he is naked except for a strategically lucky corner of the sheet. She bustles from the room and closes the door rather firmly behind her.

Jaskier thinks about leaving the sheet where it is and playing the coquette, but in the end he snatches it up and hugs it more firmly to himself. “Why don’t I get a bath?”

“Because you can’t get your wound wet, and I’m far dirtier than you,” Geralt explains, dropping his breeches without warning and giving Jaskier a thorough eyeful.

Jaskier blinks a few times, wondering if he’s allowed to stare yet. He goes with ‘yes’ and tilts his head to the side as he watches Geralt step into the steaming tub. Geralt is completely unselfconscious and utterly enormous. Jaskier is unsurprised and very appreciative.

Geralt says, “Hmm,” as he settles into the tub and props his forearms on the edge, and for some reason that Jaskier can’t quite parse, that sound really gets him going. He readjusts his sheet.

“How’s the water?” he asks, clearing his throat halfway through the sentence.

“Fine. How’s your leg?”

Jaskier looks down at his leg and flexes a little. “Fine. Mostly. It pulls a little. What did you put on it?”

“Numbing salve. Shouldn’t wear off until morning, if you take it easy.” He scrubs water over his face. “Still feel drunk?”

Jaskier sighs. “Sadly, no. Should I have some more?”

“Definitely not.” Geralt’s face doesn’t change, but his tone is decidedly amused.

“Pity.” Jaskier reaches instead for the jug of ale and drinks the little bit that Geralt had left in the bottom. “You could have left some of this for me.”

Geralt ignores him and fishes around in the water, then looks all around the tub. Exasperated, he splashes water on himself and grunts.

“What are you looking for?”

“Soap.”

Jaskier looks for a moment and sees it on a small table behind Geralt. He hesitates for a moment, then awkwardly slips out of the bed, trailing the sheet that he’s wound around himself. He feels like a maiden protecting her virtue, more so when Geralt looks suddenly over at him and freezes, his eyes tracking all over what Jaskier has covered up, and what he hasn’t.

“Get back in bed, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shuffles over to the table and retrieves the soap. He hands it over Geralt’s shoulder and their hands brush, wet and dry. He stares stupidly at the back of Geralt’s head, remembering suddenly what that silver hair feels like dragging across his cock.

“Ah, so about earlier…”

Geralt sighs.

“I didn’t even say anything!” Jaskier says defensively.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to,” Geralt says quietly.

“How magnanimous of you.” Jaskier reaches out the hand not clutching the sheet and touches Geralt’s hair. He’s let it down from its ties and it just falls over his shoulders, tendrils waving down his temples. It feels like raw silk, slightly rough and dully shining, magnificent.

He wants to feel it on his skin again.

“I seem to recall you saying we would get to you later. It’s later, Geralt.”

Geralt sucks in a slow, audible breath. “You’re injured.”

“I’m not dead,” Jaskier protests, feeling the proof of life rising beneath the sheet as he moves his fingertips to Geralt’s shoulder, slipping on wet skin that glistens golden in the firelight. “And I still have two good hands.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. “I remember that you do.”

Jaskier very, very carefully kneels beside Geralt. His leg twinges but honestly he wouldn’t give up even if he was bleeding freely. He holds his hand out for the soap and Geralt hands it to him, casting him a quick glance that speaks volumes.

With the first touch of Jaskier’s soap-slippery fingers on Geralt’s bicep, Geralt grunts softly and shifts toward Jaskier, who wonders how long it’s been since Geralt has been really touched. Jaskier tests the density of muscle there and down his forearm. Geralt twists his hand to grip Jaskier’s.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Geralt, there are so many things I want to do to you,” Jaskier replies, rubbing his thumb over Geralt’s knuckles and kissing the wet skin there, “and it would be a shame if you kept trying to talk me out of it instead of just enjoying yourself.”

Geralt finally looks at him, really looks, and his eyes are honest and searching. He won’t let go of Jaskier’s hand, so Jaskier just skims his free hand back up Geralt’s arm, following the natural curve of his body over his shoulder and down over his pectoral muscle. When he slips just past his nipple Geralt inhales quickly, so Jaskier does it again more deliberately, watching the tiny shiver that ripples up Geralt’s body. Jaskier does it again, except this time he rubs the nipple between his thumb and forefinger and Geralt groans, lifting into the touch and dropping his head back to rest on the rim of the tub.

“You look so beautiful like this,” Jaskier whispers without truly meaning to. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

Geralt’s careful silence answers for him.

Jaskier swallows hard. “Well, you are. I see you, Geralt, and you’re beautiful.” He draws his hand down to toy with Geralt’s navel, hinting with his teasing touch that he could, might, drop even lower.

But he doesn’t.

Geralt makes a soft sound of protest when Jaskier pulls both hands away. “You’re too tense,” Jaskier explains, shifting behind him again, “and you’re still dirty.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns, gripping the sides of the tub.

“Hush, Geralt. Try to relax. This isn’t a battle you have to prepare for, trust me.”

“I’m not really...designed for relaxing.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean you can’t. I didn’t think you could laugh, when I first met you, but I’ve seen you do it so I know you can do this too.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, just shifts uneasily in the tub, so Jaskier takes that to mean he’ll try. He remembers the way Geralt had touched him earlier, how easily he had reached for Jaskier and taken care of him, how he had smiled and pushed aside his own desire.

Jaskier decides that’s bollocks.

The first thing he does is gather up Geralt’s hair and twist it all up at the crown of his head, securing it in a loose ball with the fallen leather hair tie. Jaskier has never seen the nape of Geralt’s neck before and it looks surprisingly vulnerable, pale and smooth. No scars here. Jaskier touches it with his fingertips, then his palm, memorizing the feel of skin as close-grained as marble but so much warmer than stone.

Geralt has stopped moving entirely. Jaskier isn’t even sure he’s breathing. He presses his mouth carefully to Geralt’s nape, tasting the skin just below his hairline where the silver is as soft as peach fuzz on his tongue. Farther down, he sucks gently on the knobs of his spine where they begin to rise, and Geralt drops his head forward just a little bit, groaning almost inaudibly.

“Are you with me, Geralt?” Jaskier draws a line with his tongue back up Geralt’s nape and waits for an answer.

Geralt sounds strangled, but he chokes out, “Please,” and Jaskier wonders how long it’s been since Geralt had to use that word.

“I’ve got you,” Jaskier whispers. He finds the soap and works up a fine lather, then slowly washes Geralt’s arms and chest. He buries his nose beneath Geralt’s ear and leans over him with both arms, working by feel alone, closing his eyes and breathing. When he has run his hands over every part of Geralt that he can easily reach he gathers water in his hands and sluices it over soapy skin, washing away evidence of the monsters and the road.

Without warning Geralt moves, pulling away and twisting around so that he can reach Jaskier with his mouth. He opens up for a kiss rather than trying to dictate one, and Jaskier flickers his tongue through Geralt’s mouth, tasting him and mapping his contours in case he needs to find his way back later.

Geralt reaches back and grips Jaskier’s head with a wet hand, and Jaskier shivers as water drips down his neck. He wishes he could climb into the tub with Geralt, to straddle him and show him just how badly he wants this. He tells himself that if there is ever a next time, then he will. As it is, he satisfies himself with shifting around so he can slip his hand below the surface of the cooling water to find Geralt’s hard cock proudly reaching for the surface, shockingly hot and large enough that Jaskier wishes he had two free hands.

He wastes no time and grips him hard, rubbing his thumb over the crown, and Geralt makes a sound like a wounded bear and bites at Jaskier’s mouth. Kissing Geralt already feels as natural as though they’ve been doing it for years, and Jaskier is amazed at that but doesn’t spare too much thought for it, because Geralt’s cock is throbbing in his hand and Geralt’s hips are rising and falling against his hold.

Geralt pulls back to catch his breath and Jaskier watches him, the way his brow furrows and his eyelids press tightly with tension, the way Geralt’s mouth is kiss-reddened and wet, the way his chest heaves with each stroke of his cock.

“Jaskier,” he says roughly, and to Jaskier’s ears it sounds like, ‘please, more, yes.’

“You want to come for me, Geralt, I know you do. You want to let go of everything and just float. You want to let your guard down, I know how badly you do, even if you won’t say it.” He drops kisses along Geralt’s jaw and temple, listening to the rasp of Geralt’s breath and the gentle splashing of the water as his hand makes waves under the water. “You can let go now, Geralt. I won’t let you drown.”

Geralt gasps and crushes his mouth to Jaskier’s, kissing him so hard and so searchingly that Jaskier almost misses how Geralt’s cock jerks and pulses in his hand, how Geralt’s whole body tenses hard as armor then relaxes, and Geralt’s mouth slips away from his as he goes limp in the tub.

Jaskier has honestly never seen him this way before, and he touches him gently, finding his body pliant and floating.

“That’s what I was looking for,” Jaskier says, trying to keep the smugness out of his voice. He takes Geralt’s wrist and lifts, then drops his hand back into the water with no resistance.

Geralt just sighs.

“I want you to know, I am happy to offer my services at any time, should you find yourself in need of a good bath,” Jaskier says lightly but carefully, navigating new ground.

Geralt smiles, lazy and glowing in the firelight, his eyes still closed. He wraps his long, callused fingers around Jaskier’s hand under the water. “I do take baths as often as I am able, on the road.”

“Well, then,” Jaskier replies, searching for something witty to say, but he looks at Geralt and wants him, so he just leans over the edge of the tub instead and catches Geralt’s mouth with his. Geralt jumps, startled, then kisses him back softly. Jaskier isn’t sure if he imagines the promise of more.

“Can I get out, now?” Geralt is definitely amused, but still Jaskier hears an honest question there.

“Yes, you big lout, you’re as clean as you’ll ever be.” He stands very slowly, feeling the ache radiating from the wound that he’d forgotten. He glances down and is relieved to see that there is no new blood soaking the bandage. He sees Geralt looking too, standing in the tub with his cock still half hard.

“Fuck,” Geralt says softly, frowning. “We should have waited.”

“We absolutely should not have waited,” Jaskier replies firmly. “I wasn’t about to travel with you all wound up like a coiled spring, brooding and cantankerous. What kind of friend would I be?”

“You’re a good friend, Jaskier,” Geralt says stiffly after a long moment, and he puts an unexpected emphasis on the word ‘friend.’

He steps out of the tub and takes the bath sheet that Jaskier holds out for him. Watching him dry off is almost as tantalizing as watching him get wet, Jaskier thinks, and tries not to wonder about Geralt’s statement.

Jaskier is still tangled up awkwardly in his bedsheet, and he feels ridiculous, so he drops it and steps out, then looks up to find Geralt watching him hungrily with his amber eyes. Until now Jaskier had been ignoring his own desire in favor of Geralt’s, but he finds his cock rising interestedly again as they both stand there naked and uncertain, looking at each other in silence as the fire crackles cheerfully.

“A good friend would offer a helping hand in return,” Geralt murmurs, holding his hand out.

Jaskier takes it hesitantly. “If I recall, and I do because I have a perfect memory, you already helped me out earlier. We can’t just keep taking turns with each other, we’d never get out of bed otherwise.”

Geralt tilts his head. “I suppose friends would have to draw the line somewhere.”

Jaskier clears his throat, his heart beating faster. “Lovers, though. Lovers wouldn’t have such boundaries. Lovers could keep going as long as they wanted to, or at least until they had to stop for breakfast.”

Geralt grips Jaskier’s hand tightly and he pulls him in. “I’m not hungry yet,” he says, brushing his mouth against Jaskier’s, whose meager resistance just crumbles like an old stone wall.

“Breakfast is a good long while away,” he agrees, and kisses Geralt, tugging the tie in his hair loose and winding his hand into the silver weight of it, bringing it down around his shoulders. Geralt moans softly and leans back into his hand, breaking the kiss.

“Lie down before you fall down,” Geralt says, his eyes heavy-lidded with intent, shoving him toward the bed.

Jaskier thinks he is indeed in danger of falling, just not down, but he doesn’t say so to Geralt. One step at a time, he reasons to himself, slowly lowering himself onto the bed. Geralt follows after, arranging himself next to Jaskier and leaning on his elbow with his head propped up on his hand. He’s watching Jaskier carefully but his body language is more open than Jaskier’s ever seen it. Jaskier feels proud, because he did that to Geralt, he gave him that gift.

Geralt’s medallion winks in the light and Jaskier puts his palm over it. Even with the metal between them he can feel the heavy, slow beat of Geralt’s heart. “Now what?”

Geralt touches Jaskier’s throat and moves downward. “Now it’s your turn.”

Jaskier gasps as Geralt trails his fingers over his hip bone. “Why don’t we go together, this time. We can sort it all out over breakfast.”

Instead of answering, Geralt kisses him, and hums in a perfect low pitch that makes Jaskier think of a new melody for a ballad, but he decides that it, too, can wait until breakfast.


End file.
